


Hellbound

by EllaStorm



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Poetry, and some things in between, prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-03-18 01:04:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3550334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllaStorm/pseuds/EllaStorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small collection of poetry and prose written for two soulmates with rocksalt in their guns and demons on their heels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hallowed Ground

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to this small mixture of poems/not-really-poems and not-even-close-to-poetry-poems (aka weird prose) about my favourite consanguinamorous brothers. Only reason for the existence of this is my brain regularly waking me up at half past two in the morning and demanding me to write something, preferably about a subject that will leave me sleepless and in tears after the whole ordeal. (Don't feel too bad about it, brain. We can be weird and dysfunctional together, and inflict our co-productions on AO3.)
> 
> And, another, rather more serious, thing, that does not necessarily belong here, but needs to be said: Thank you, Richard Siken. Thank you so much for your truly fantastic writing that has made me understand (for the first time, mind you) what poetry should feel like. I am deeply grateful for your existence.

Slender fingers with blood-crusted nails

tiptoe over broken skin and climb the ridges of bruised bones

like steps to a cathedral,

hesitant and full of awe,

every time like the first.

 

 

There’s no space between them, only shared breath

and the insignificance of anything beyond that;

a neverending chain reaction of giving and receiving,

an ouroboros of worship in a church made of thin motel blankets,

hallowed ground built on tangled bodies and whispered declarations in the dark.

 

 

Their incense is salt and kerosene,

and when they make their sacrifices they don’t do it on an altar,

but in a gravel crossroad with a sulfur-stained kiss

or with a silver knife to the heart,

(but that was just a wish).

 

 

Their one-syllable prayers blur together

like the lyrics of a cantata echoing in two ribcages,

a rosary of unconditional devotion

lost between their lips.

 


	2. Burned Bridges

Sometimes I think.

If I hadn’t pulled you out in California.

If the house had just burned down with us in it.

 

We would have gone to Heaven that night, you and I.

We would have gone to Heaven and stayed there.

No yellow eyes in your dreams.

No dirty blood in your mouth.

And the man in the white suit would never have found you.

The world would have crumbled and burned.

Same difference.

 

We would have gone to Heaven that night, you and I.

We would have gone to Heaven, stayed there,

and maybe found a way to love each other without casualties.

 

Sometimes I think.

 

Then, I remember.

I remember fear in your eyes and ash in your nose and horror on your lips

and how you nearly broke my grip on your desperate arms.

I remember and that thing overcomes me, the one that makes you drive to the crossroads and bury a chest in the gravel and give yourself away, because-

Just because.

 

We were never going to Heaven that night, you and I.

We were never going to Heaven and staying there.

Not even before yellow eyes, and dirty blood and the man in the white suit.

Not even ever.

Because-

Just because.

 

 

I’m sorry.


	3. Wasteland

Your grave is in the dirt.

 

I stand, well knowing, and wish I didn’t. The gold around my neck has the weight of the world on it, and now I finally know why you carried it all this time.

It’s not a choice. It’s a necessity.

 

The scar on my back hurts. It’s wasteland without your hands on it, just like me.

 

Maybe I’ll be the death of something ugly today. Would you like that?

After all I can’t but hunt and drive, drive and hunt. That’s your fault.

You let me sit shotgun. You brought me back home.

 

I never had it in me to blame you.

 

I put a wooden cross on your grave.

I take up the shovel.

I dig a second one.


	4. Requiescat

Part your lips and hold my breath.

Your lungs will keep it safer than mine.

They always seem to betray me

In your presence, anyway.

 

Engrave yourself in me.

I know what’s lurking in the dark,

And I cannot stand the darkness touching me

When you are not.

 

Say my name and call me _brother_.

Shout it, whisper it.

Paint it on my skin.

So I’ll remember who I am

When I’m buried inside you.

 

When it’s time, put me to rest.

I want my grave in your eyes,

My remembrance in your bones

And my oblivion in your smile.


	5. Thin Ice

Click of the lock. Door opens, behind. Heavy footsteps; brother’s footsteps.

_Don’t turn around._

 

“Heya, Sam.” No alcohol in his voice, surprisingly.

Footsteps coming closer _._  Stop.

“You still studying? If you keep overachieving like this you’ll never get laid.” Words spoken playfully, jokingly, looking for safe ground.

 

_There’s no such thing as safe ground between us. Not since 4 pm this afternoon when I pressed my lips to yours and you ran away._

 

“I bet getting laid was not a problem for you tonight.” A little too much anger in there. Too late to correct.

“Oh, the boy can talk.”

Footsteps, again. Mattress creaks.

 

_Don’t look over to him._

 

“I’m sixteen, I’m not a boy anymore.”

Ignored.

“There was this girl, Rosalie. She was all over me. Up for it from the get-go.”

 

Silence.

 

“I didn’t fuck her, though.”

 

_Why not?_

“Why not?” Inevitable question. Stupid question. Important question.

 

Silence, once more. Too much silence.

 

“Didn’t work out.” Voice honest. Undertone scared.

 

_So you came back to me instead._

 

Standing up, turning around, finally looking.

Brother sitting on the edge of the bed, leather jacket, eyes as frightened as his voice. Still beautiful. Always beautiful.

Walking over, one step, two, it’s easy touching him.

Flinch. “Sammy.” A plea. Unspoken words.

 

_Why not?_

“Why not?” Inevitable question. Stupid question. Vital question.

 

“I don’t wanna screw up your life.”

“My life has been screwed up ever since Mom died. You’re the one making it better.” Hand in his hair, gaze locked. _You can’t run away from this._

 

Waiting.

 

Then, movement. Pulled forward, mouths, hands, skin colliding. It’s a revelation, deeper than blood, no start, no finish.

This is who they are.

 

_Don’t ever let go, brother._

_Don’t ever let go._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually wrote this little piece a while ago, and just recently rediscovered it in my (quite unorganised) files. Since it fits kind of nicely with the stylistically grey mix of poetry and prose in this collection, I thought I might share it here with you.


End file.
